


With All I Have

by illfit



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Emotional Baggage, Established Relationship, Fluff, Heavy Angst, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Sad Ending, Terminal Illnesses, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, True Love, nothing actually happens but it's talked about/mentioned briefly, so it's an unnamed illness, the illness is modeled as stomach cancer but i don't think there's cancer in the DA series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-28 06:49:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7629184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illfit/pseuds/illfit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't die how he wanted, no great battle, with swords clashing or fireballs colliding.</p><p>He passes with his body betraying itself and the overwhelming realization that immortality doesn't exist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With All I Have

**Author's Note:**

> ok i am seemingly incapable of writing anything even remotely happy, so enjoy this pile of washed up feelings. all written in one sitting (granted it was a 5hr sitting but w/e).
> 
> enjoy :)

It happens like this:

Hawke falls ill. A stomach pain that he “forgets” to tell Fenris about. They return from Sundermount, bandit bodies on the north part of the trail, Fenris as Hawke’s crutch on the south. They don’t make it to either of their estates. Instead, Varric offers his room, to which they graciously accept. Hawke nearly falls asleep on the stairs, and Fenris mostly drags him into bed.

“Stomach bug,” Isabela suggests when he returns to the lower level, “I get real tired when I get ‘em.” She pays for a bottle of wine to share.

“Stomach bug,” Fenris repeats, trying to rationalize the situation. _Maybe it’s just fatigue_ , he thinks, _because Hawke does not get sick._

Hawke wakes the next morning, says he feels fine, tells Fenris to stop worrying.

 

Two days later, dispatching muggers in Hightown at night, Hawke’s magic is sloppy. Fenris feels more of a tug in his lyrium, bordering painful, and Hawke's spells either miss or are half as effective as usual.

Hawke grins nevertheless, and, throwing an arm around Fenris’ shoulder he says, “Let’s see if we can get Orana to make that soup, yeah?” He stumbles twice on the way home, and completely forgets to ask Orana in favor of falling asleep in Fenris' arms. As Hawke sleeps, Fenris strokes his hair and tries to convince himself that everything is okay. _It’s just a stomach bug, after all._

He fails miserably.

 

A week passes, and they’re once again in bed. Fenris is tracing letters on Hawke’s back, writing out his worry. Everything he wishes he could say but can’t, he puts on Hawke’s sleeping body.

They’ve been in bed for the past day, as Hawke has been too tired to help Aveline, too tired to visit the market, too tired to do much of anything. So he’s slept. And Fenris is with him, because Fenris can’t stay away. Anything could happen if Fenris weren’t at his side. Even as Hawke sleeps sixteen straight hours, Fenris cleans the room, plays with the dog, practices reading, but does not leave the room. He ignores his gut feeling that something is wrong, oh so _wrong_ , and tells himself to stop worrying.

 

Hawke’s voice is silk against his skin, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. He nips at the tip, and then kisses the skin where spine meets neck. Fenris doesn’t hold back his moan. With the fear of losing Hawke so deeply knitted into his stomach, he cherishes every moment with his love, and lets Hawke know just how much whenever he can.

“I love you,” Hawke says, running his fingers along Fenris’ sides, who shivers beneath him. Their lips press together, slowly, softly, and part the same way. One hand on his hip, Fenris gently pushes Hawke onto his stomach.

Hawke chuckles, a warm, hearty sound that makes something blossom inside Fenris’ chest. “What are you doing?"

“Giving you a massage. You’re tense,” Fenris says this in such a matter-of-fact way that Hawke’s chuckle turns into a loud laugh.

“Oh, you’re serious?” Hawke jokes as Fenris straddles his hips, sits on Hawke’s ass, who wiggles slightly, still laughing. “This isn’t quite how I saw this night going.”

“We can do other things later. I just want you to feel better.” It’s heartfelt, probably the most sincere thing he’s ever said to someone before. Fenris can just barely see Hawke’s smile, and he leans over to press a kiss to his cheek before popping his knuckles and pushing the heel of his palm into Hawke’s lower back.

 

Hawke passes out while helping Fenris read, quite literally going pliant for no discernible reason. Fenris panics, calls for Orana, calls for Aveline, anyone that will hear him, _anyone_. Asks them to help, asks Andraste to watch over them. _Maker, help us._

At the clinic, after Orana had gotten the nearest guard to help Fenris carry Hawke, Anders instructs them to lay Hawke on his primary cot. Hawke looks, Fenris thinks, ridiculous. He is too strong to be here, he doesn’t belong. He’s just too big for the cot, shoulders too broad and spreading past the width of the cloth, feet too long and hanging off the edge.

Anders meditates over him for a while, asking Fenris questions every few minutes. After two long, anxious hours, Anders simply chalks it up to malnutrition. Fenris nearly rips the still-beating heart out of the abomination’s chest right there. Instead, though, he kneels by the cot, takes Hawke’s hand in his and kisses the knuckles.

_You stupid bastard. Why won’t you eat?_

 

Two weeks pass, Hawke doesn’t eat any more than what Fenris forces down his throat. _‘My stomach hurts too much, Fen. I’m sorry.’_

He’s nearly house-ridden. The only time he leaves is with Fenris on a quick trip to the market. Aveline doesn’t even mention work around Hawke. When she and Donnic visit to play cards, it’s strictly casual talk, and yet her face is drawn with hard lines. When they aren’t there and Varric isn’t giving them a preview to his new book, Isabela and Merrill fill the silence. They all know what’s coming, even the Mabari. Deep down, Fenris knows too. He also knows he holds too much denial to acknowledge it.

Orana brings Hawke’s favorite soup. After just a few bites, he’s full. An hour later, when the soup is cold, he asks Fenris to help him to the bathroom.

He pukes the moment they’re in the door, but it’s all blood. Hawke collapses in the worst of it, and trying to move him to the bathtub is like moving dead weight. Eventually, though, they make it, and Hawke's chin sits on the rim, eyes heavy. Fenris calls for Orana, who is now never far away. When he asks her to bring Anders, she nods and takes off in a jog.

The moment Fenris returns his attention to Hawke, his heart drops. Hawke’s clothes are sprayed with blood. His left leg and side are covered from where he fell. Hawke’s cheeks puff ever so slightly, and Fenris can tell he’s going to vomit again, so he situates himself behind Hawke, keeping his back supported with his own body and the hair out of his face.

After it seems there’s no blood left to let go of, Fenris brushes back Hawke’s hair, which has slowly been turning brittle and wiry. He wraps his arms around Hawke’s midsection, and rests his head against the back of his.

“Wish you didn’t have to see this.” Hawke mumbles, eyes closed. Blood drips from his mouth onto Fenris’ arm.

“I don’t mind.” Fenris says, because he really doesn’t. If anything, he is so grateful that he can be here, that Hawke will let him. He’s started praying to Andraste daily, and he thanks her every time, thanks her for the fact that Hawke is his, that he can do this, that he can be there for Hawke.

“S’pathetic,” Hawke groans as he moves, readjusting his leg and resting a hand on Fenris’ own. “M’pathetic.”

“No you aren’t. What’s pathetic is that you have to endure this. I’m so proud that you’ve made it this far.”

“When’d you become the optimistic one?” Hawke jokes, but the humor falls flat.

“I-” Fenris almost says it, but stops short, backs up, rethinks. Hawke’s hair smells like sweat and blood, too much death, not enough life. He stays silent, hopes Hawke knows, squeezes him in case he doesn’t.

“Don’t,” Hawke whispers, and explains, “feel bloated.” Another drop of blood, and Fenris stops talking. Tears well in the corners of his eyes, threaten to spill. Hawke coughs, and they do.

“H-Hey,” He says, “Don’t-” He’s cut off, blood sprays from his mouth, more coughing than anything. It all hits the side of the tub before Fenris realizes Hawke can’t move, so he moves his head for him.

Anders comes in then, full sprint, and winces at the amount of blood. Fenris doesn’t look up, just makes sure nothing gets in the way of Hawke’s mouth. Hawke starts to break out in a cold sweat and all Fenris can do is sigh.

“What do we _do?_ ”

 

Anders guesses internal bleeding, and with a diagnosis in hand, he can actually heal Hawke. They return from the clinic feeling better than ever before. It’s an uphill Bronto ride, but Hawke is better. For a time.

“Hawke,” Fenris whispers, after an entire day without Hawke eating. It’s the middle of the night, inky darkness like a curtain between them, preventing them from seeing one another.

“Mm?” The figure beside him rolls around, and suddenly Hawke’s nose is breaking the darkness.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing, Fen. M’fine.”

This is as close as Fenris can get to voicing his concern, and still Hawke refutes it. Even after all that’s happened, Hawke denies everything. With a clenched jaw and set brow, he searches for Hawke’s hands. His land anywhere but - Hawke’s shoulders, face, hips, legs, gives up and settles for his chest.

Fenris pushes him over, onto his back, and moves on top of him, resting his chin on Hawke’s sternum. They’re close enough that Fenris can see Hawke’s face, and all his once-glorious features are now covered in dry skin and dark circles. Fenris believes the radiance is still there, it has to be. Fenris knows, though, that Hawke hasn't changed. He is still his kind self. He shines in his own way.

Hawke reaches up, brushes the hair away from Fenris’ face, holds his fingers against his hairline.

“You’re so beautiful,” He murmurs, and Fenris presses his cheek into Hawke’s palm with a sad smile.

“Not compared to you.”

With a wry grin, “I haven’t looked so well the past few months, if you haven’t noticed. Compared to you, I’m hideous.”

Fenris shifts even closer, peppers Hawke’s face with kisses. He kisses everything - his cheeks, his nose, his eyes, his chin, and then his lips. Fenris kisses him until he can’t breathe and their lips are swollen. “Garrett Hawke,” He says sternly, “You are the light of my life.”

Hawke moans when Fenris kisses him next, long and bruising. He will force Hawke to believe him. He will force Hawke to stay if it kills him.

When it’s over, Fenris nuzzles Hawke’s jaw, buries himself into the crook of his neck. The situation returns to Fenris. A breath passes. Two. There’s no space in this room for more; Fenris holds his breath.

There’s so much he wants to say. _Tell me you’re okay. Please be okay. Tell me what’s happening. Don’t leave me._

Stupidly, he settles on, “Ask for my help.” His voice is angry, even though he doesn’t want to be. All he wants is for Hawke to tell him what’s wrong.

“Fen...”

“Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?”

“It’s okay.”

Fenris doesn’t listen, he moves. Plants his hands on each side of Hawke’s face, threads his fingers into Hawke’s hair. “Please, Hawke,” He begs, “tell me.” _I don’t want to lose you._

Each second that passes in silence brings him closer to anger, even though he still doesn’t want to be. He wants to be calm, wants to be silent, wants to be happy. But Hawke won’t tell him what’s wrong, what has made him so weak. A cold hand worms its way around his heart, squeezes.

In the silence, he tries again to rationalize. Maybe Hawke is angry, maybe he’s sad; maybe he, too, is scared. Maybe he doesn’t know.

Maybe he does.

Maybe he doesn’t care.

Fenris pleads, “Please, Garrett. I can’t lose you.” On the verge of tears, his heart beats faster, stronger, trying to break the vice around it. It fails.

“I love you, Fen,” Hawke murmurs, turning to kiss Fenris’ hair. “So, so much.”

“Then why won’t you tell me?”

One beat. Two. Dread settles in his stomach, Hawke’s arms encircle his waist.

“I would. Truth be told,” he admits, “I have no idea what’s wrong.”

 

Anders waves his hands over Hawke’s near-nude body, searching, begging to find the problem. Without the energy or desire to keep the abomination from Hawke, Fenris watches, near pliant to the world around him. The magic makes his lyrium swirl, but he doesn’t care. _Hawke had been doing so well._

Assistants clear the room, promising the other residents that they’ll get help tomorrow. Anders, though, is solely focused on Hawke, and Fenris would never have thought that he’d be grateful for that.

“You said he collapsed on the stairs?”

Fenris nods, “His stomach wasn’t feeling well, so he went to get herbs from Orana while I finished what I was doing. I heard... a noise, and when I looked, he was falling.” His voice cracks on the last word. The brick wall he’s built around himself slowly crumbles. He tells himself to buck up, no one is worth this show of weakness. _Except Hawke._

Anders says, “I’ll keep him for a while.”

Fenris says, “Make him better.”

 

It’s not the first time Hawke’s seen him cry, but it also isn’t the last. At least Fenris hopes so.

“Please,” He wails, oblivious to Orana’s sudden appearance and concerned stare. “It’s not your time.” It’s not your time, not your time, _not your time._

Hawke smiles softly, and Fenris wraps his arms around his neck as they kiss.

_Gently._

_You’ll break him._

 

Anders snuffs out his lamps. Darktown is, and rightly so, dark. The world is silent. The whole group is in the clinic, and everyone but Fenris has paid their respects. Isabela and Merrill stand by the doors, Aveline and Varric lean against a support pillar nearby. Carver is on the opposite wall with Hawke’s hound. Anders sits nearby, deep in meditation, trying to keep Hawke alive as long as possible. All eyes are on the center of the room, everyone’s attention is on Kirkwall’s Champion. _Their_ Champion.

Once again on the moth-eaten cots, Hawke is now too small for it - too frail, too fragile. _He's lost so much weight._

Fenris shakes like leaves falling from a tree.

“Please Hawke,” Fenris whispers, praying to Andraste and to the Maker, to the Dalish gods, to anyone who will listen. _Save him._

And then, it starts.

Hawke’s breath slows, his heartbeat fades, his eyelids flutter. Fenris kneels, puts a hand on Hawke’s cheek. Hawke opens his eyes, smiles when he sees Fenris. “I’m so sorry, Fen.” He whispers, but Fenris shakes his head, tears spilling from his eyes. This is the last time.

“You stubborn Fereldens,” Fenris mutters, and Hawke’s smile grows. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Nothing-” a deep breath, “-to say. Nothing-” another, “-you could do.”

“I could’ve saved you.” Fenris whispers, threading his fingers in Hawke’s brittle, graying hair. _Too young. Too gray._

“I love you, Fenris-” another, longer, “-so much. S’okay.” If he doesn’t say it now, he never will, he’ll never have the chance. Never again. Fenris opens his mouth, and Hawke’s smile fades slightly.

“Don’t have to.”

“I do, I want you to know.” 

“Always-” deep breath, “-have.” Fenris smiles. This dying man before him, with a wheezing heart and broken voice, is his. This dying man has held on for so long for him. Tears flow freely now; there is too much love in his body for there to be sadness.

“I love you,” Hawke says again.

“And I, you,” Fenris whispers, brushing his lips against Hawke’s. They’re chapped and bloody, but still they live, they still retain feeling.

So finally, with confidence, “I love you so much, Hawke.” Fenris presses their noses together now, closing his eyes and smiling. “So, so much.” Then Fenris pulls back, no more than three inches, and adds, “Please don’t go, don’t leave me alone.”

“It’s-” Hawke takes another deep breath, the longest one yet, his chest shaking just as much as Fenris’ hands, “-okay.”

And then, because he wants to, Hawke repeats, “I love you.”

And then, because he needs to, Fenris repeats, “I love you.”

And then, it happens.

His breathing slows to a stop, his heart pumps one last time, strongly - a final, fleeting attempt to grasp at life. His eyes close, and don’t reopen. Anders falls out of his trance, Fenris freezes, everyone freezes, everything stops. The only movement is a tear rolling from Fenris’ cheek, falling onto Hawke’s own.

And then, it’s over.

Hawke is dead.

The Champion is gone.


End file.
